"Take Isotta d'Este back to her prison," he said, curtly, and a group of soldiers advanced.
Isotta clung to Valentine in an agony.
"At last!" said Visconti, in her ear, "at last thy calm fails thee!"
And then he stood aside watching, while she implored in turn Valentine and Agnolo to save her, in incoherent words of anguish.
"I cannot bear it!" she cried. "I have borne it too long! O God, have pity on me! Have pity on me, I have not the courage to face it again. I have not the courage!"
Visconti turned to her in a savage triumph of hate he scarcely troubled to conceal.
"Find thy courage again, where thou found'st it before," he said. "Thy husband is not dead, although he leaves thee to pine in prison. He may remember thee even yet."
Isotta sprang up at the taunt, wild-eyed.
"Keep thy face away from me!" she shrieked. "Ye have slain him! Kill me too!"
Then, seeing resistance useless, and those who would have saved her helpless, Della Scala's unhappy wife surrendered quietly; only, as she crossed the courtyard with her guard, and saw the tree-tops wave above the walls and the sky that was outside Milan, a cry rose that made the hardened soldiers wince.
"Mastino! Oh, Mastino!"
Visconti watched her out of sight, then turned again to Graziosa, his hand still on his sister's shoulder.
"Graziosa," he murmured.
But the girl made no answer; she was huddled on thebench that ran along the wall, looking out with frightened eyes.
As he spoke she shuddered, and crouched closer to the wall.
But Agnolo answered, and Visconti, serene in his pride, did not notice the painter's tone.
"My daughter is dazed with her surprise, lord, as who would not be? Graziosa, speak to the Duke, speak to thy Ambrogio," and he gripped her hand fiercely. But Graziosa rose at his touch, and snatching her hand away, fled from the room, with one wild look toward Visconti.
"Ye see, my lord, she is bewildered, she can scarce believe it true——"
"It matter not for now," said Visconti. "Thy daughter lovesme, painter, and none the less, I doubt not, that I am Duke of Milan; and she shall be my duchess, as I have vowed."
"Truly, the honor is more, I think, than she can bear," and Agnolo bowed to the ground.
"I have won a wife for myself—a wife who loves me for myself alone."
"Ah, she loves thee for what thou art not," cried Valentine aloud.
But Visconti took no heed of her.
"Think of thy daughter as a precious charge, Agnolo," he continued. "Meanwhile I leave one of my captains here on guard. That last attack on thee and thine came near costing me too dear."
"My daughter——" began the painter, but Visconti interrupted him:
"Thy daughter will be my wife, painter; remember it, and heed her safety. And thou, Valentine, come with me, and I will tell thee in private how Count Conrad's folly lost Della Scala thy dear brother, and gave me theday—and an army." He turned to go; Agnolo made an impulsive movement forward, but checked himself.
"Tell Graziosa," said Visconti, "she is my duchess on the day my sister weds the Duke d'Orleans."
Visconti crossed the courtyard; the soldiers closed around him and his captive; Agnolo sprang forward, and drawing the little dagger he wore, hurled it after him.
It fell unheard, unseen, amid the trampling feet.
"Your hand—hurts me," gasped Valentine, suddenly very white and trembling.
A soldier was pulling Adrian's dead body from the gate to allow of the Duke's passing, and she, dragged in his grasp, had almost stepped on him. This was what it had ended in—Adrian had flung away his life for nothing.
Visconti's voice broke upon her.
"Take this cloak to hide thy garb; I could not have Milan see thee thus—even if thou hast lost all shame."
A ring of soldiers kept the crowd back, all the crowd the narrow streets permitted. The high morning sun sparkled on their halberds, spears, and armor; the dazzle of scarlet and gold from their trappings was blinding in its confusion, and Valentine hid her eyes—from that and the dead boy's face.
"A Visconti! A Visconti!" came the shout. The horses of the Paduans were champing impatiently, Visconti's charger reared between its holders-in.
"Now, where is my lord?" cried de Lana, riding up breathless through the noise and glitter—"I have been outwitted——"
"Hush!" said Visconti softly. "I am here, de Lana,—and so is she who outwitted thee," and he pointed to the cloaked figure beside him. "Take her ahead in secrecy, and swiftly, to the palace."
The command and the movement were lost in the confusion. The horsemen were forming up behind Visconti,the walls and street crowded; from every distant window and house-top shouting spectators gazed on the gorgeous scene below.
Visconti drew his sword, and held its glittering cross high up against the sapphire sky.
"Now glory be to God, His angels, and San' Apollinare, my patron saint, that I am entered into my city again; and for my most miraculous escape, there shall be an altar of jasper and serpentine in the Lord's new church—and therein hear my vow!"
He lowered his sword and kissed the hilt, then turning in his saddle to the men who had followed him as their new leader: "Have I not led you well, Paduans," he cried, "safe into the fairest city of Lombardy? Do you repent you of following a Visconti through the proud gates of Milan—Milan that I have made more beautiful than Ravenna, and stronger than Rome? I am your leader now, knights of Padua, and Gian Visconti never yet led to aught but victory or turned against a foe he did not crush! Once already have I trampled Della Scala to the dust, and ridden through nine wide cities of his, and spoiled his palaces to pay my soldiers, with pay that men would die to win!
"I do not pay with ducats, Paduans, or measure my rewards with coin; follow me, and I will give you cities for your plunder, and nobles to hold for ransom. Like to the thunder will I circle Lombardy, and city after city shall surrender me its keys, and the meanest soldier in my train shall gain him fame and riches from my spreading greatness such as kings might envy! Now, who but a faint heart would follow Della Scala, who lost into my hands his very wife? So long as there is a Visconti, he rules in Italy!"
Shout after shout, deafening, triumphant, greeted his words, the very air filled with the spirit of victory, themadness of triumph, the glamour of gold, the flash of scarlet, the high glitter of spears, that waved to and fro, the mad plunging of a thousand horses blinded with the dazzle of the sun; and from the throats of the thronging army, from the throats of the thronging citizens, one wild cry arose: "Visconti! Visconti! San' Apollinare! Visconti and Milan! The Duke rides the city!"
Standing on the steps of the old castle, Della Scala looked down on his diminished army; at least they were purged of traitors, he thought grimly; what remained were Veronese, and true.
At the news of Carrara's treachery, d'Este had marched aside to Mantua, whither Vincenzo had been sent.
The sun was dazzling down, a glory of gold, sparkling on the still wet leaves, and the brilliant colors of the pennons and banners that floated above the tents.
Della Scala greeted Ligozzi and his son.
Tomaso would have spoken eagerly, but his father hushed him.
"The news is most important, my lord," he said, "best tell it you in private." Then, unable to restrain himself, he added in a whisper: "Oh, the saints and angels be praised, I think we have Milan!"
Mastino della Scala, as he led the way back to the castle, trembled, almost with awe. It was a sign from heaven.
As they gained the chamber, and Ligozzi closed the door, Tomaso burst out into his tale, half-crazy with delight.
"It seems you have success," said Mastino quietly.
But he seated himself at the extemporized table, and with his hand shaded his face; it was almost more than he could bear.
"The passage leads into Milan," said Ligozzibreathlessly. "It is large enough to admit an army, and opens into the house of one who is our friend. That, my lord, is why we have been so long. The good fortune is miraculous, for we were brought out into the house of a man mad against Visconti, and thinking of nothing but revenge. He alone knows of this passage, and through it will admit your men."
"Ah!" Mastino drew a deep breath and raised his eyes. "God hath heard me, Ligozzi."
"It was true," cried Ligozzi. "Oh, lord, he was indeed here. Only this morning he re-entered Milan, Carrara's army behind him; returned in time to stay his sister, who loathes her enforced marriage, and—and——" he suddenly faltered in his recital as Tomaso laid his hand upon his shoulder.
Mastino looked at them keenly.
"And what?" he asked.
"I was going to say, lord, that in his absence, Valentine Visconti, trying to escape, was recaptured by the Duke himself in this Agnolo's house."
"Is it for that he hates Visconti?" asked Della Scala.
"Nay, my lord, he hath other wrongs": and Ligozzi proceeded to relate the tale the little painter had poured into his ears that morning.
"'Not for naught did I conceal that passage!' he cried to me. My lord, truly it was not for naught, seeing we shall thereby slay Visconti!"
"This man, Agnolo, he is to be trusted?" said Mastino.
"If ever man was! He would see Milan in ashes, an Visconti were among them."
"And the girl?"
"I did not see the girl, but methinks she has the same cause to hate Visconti."
"And that no one should know of this passage, it isstrange," mused Della Scala. "Thou art sure there is no trap, Ligozzi? Much disappointment makes me wary."
"I will stake my life there is no trap, my lord, and that this man, Agnolo Vistarnini, is dealing with the truth."
"Vistarnini," repeated Mastino. "Methinks I know the name—a painter, didst thou say?"
"A painter, my lord; the house is near the western gate."
"The western gate! I remember. It was the day I found von Schulembourg. Truly I think we may trust the man that I remember," and Mastino faintly smiled. "There is no guile in him—nor in his daughter; poor lady! she was happy then!"
"Visconti has left a guard of soldiers to protect the house; but not so many that they will not be easily disposed of. Vistarnini speaks them fair, they have no suspicion."
Mastino rose and held out his hand. "So thou hast done it, my friend, thou and thy son. I owe thee much, Ligozzi. A poor man's thanks are but an halting gift; some day, however, the Duke of Verona shall tell thee what his gratitude is worth, my friend. I thank God, Ligozzi, for one friend!"
* * * * *
In a thick wood near Milan, a man on a white horse was slowly picking his way through the dense undergrowth. The trees were close, and in their dark shadow the place was nigh as black as night.
Great tufts of flowers grew in the cool shadows. There were no signs of life, save the birds whirring through the leaves, the plants nodding in the breeze.
The rider dismounted, and tied his horse to the low bough of a large beech, flinging himself on the space of cleared ground beneath with a sigh. He wore a dressof peacock-colored velvet, tumbled and torn, and, save for a richly-jeweled dagger, more for ornament than use, was unarmed; but in the fight from which Count Conrad had just engaged, though a fight with two, weapons had not been needed; persuasion had done the work, and he had come out victorious.
In a bundle on his saddle hung his spoils, and as he discontentedly sucked the scratches on his wrist, he looked at them with interest and triumph.
Presently he fell to fingering his hair, then, sitting suddenly upright, drew his dagger with fine resolution.
He seized the first of his long curls and severed it.
Grimly, not giving himself time to pause, he proceeded to the next, and one by one hacked them from his head, his beautiful blond, perfumed curls.
Conrad sighed as he saw them lying on the grass, and felt his shorn head. He longed for a mirror in which to see the extent of his disfigurement, but there was not even a pool near.
Disconsolately he arose, and detaching the bundle from the saddle, he laid it upon the ground and opened it.
It contained a monk's robe, a rosary, a book, a wallet, and a girdle.
Conrad opened the wallet, and found food therein, and he was growing hungry; but when he came to consider it, he sickened at its coarseness.
Scraps of fat, sour, hard cakes, mostly soaked in stale wine—the refuse of farmhouses.
"Have I parleyed with and robbed a begging friar?" cried the Count in high disgust, and flung the wallet far into the bushes. "Food for hogs!"
Then with many sighs he removed the peacock-colored doublet and hose, and donned the monk's garb, drawing the hood over his shorn head, tying the girdle around his waist.
The robe was rather short, and Conrad noticed with dismay that his laced white shoes showed beneath.
"Saint Dominick, curse him, but I forgot to take his sandals!" he cried in a passion.
But passion did not avail him; he must go barefoot.
"Bleeding feet will complete the disguise," he thought bitterly, and flung off his shoes and stockings.
The robe was rather dirty; Count Conrad's fastidious nostrils fancied it smelled of the roadside, "where the old wretch has often slept, I warrant," he said, then crossed himself in contrition at the sacrilege.
Next he hung the rosary and crucifix about his neck—it was hatefully heavy—and the wallet about his shoulder. The strap galled him, and the wretched Count moaned at his fate.
He was bound to admit he had brought it on himself; he would carry it through; and with a truly heroic air he strapped the velvet doublet on the horse, and taking the bridle, made his way back toward the road.
On reaching it he flung the reins over the steed's back, and turned him adrift toward Brescia; then, with resolution in his heart and tears in his eyes, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, with feet bare on the stony road, made painful progress toward Milan.
It was early morning of the second day since Ligozzi had discovered the secret passage, and Milan lay peaceful, for in those two days there had been no fighting; but the calm was the lull before the storm.
Agnolo Vistarnini stood in front of the secret door, with shining eyes. The spring had just slipped back behind Tomaso, the last arrangements had been made; to-night Della Scala should enter Milan—and he, Agnolo, would be the means.
Agnolo looked across the courtyard now in shadow to where a soldier kept his guard. The guard was the Duke's orders, and to the painter's face the soldiery showed all respect; yet well Agnolo knew they laughed at Visconti's whim, and shrugged their shoulders at the pale-faced girl who was to be Duchess of Milan. And the painter had heard their talk among themselves. "It was likely enough for the Duke to amuse himself in disguise," they said, "but to marry a painter's daughter!"
"It were more reasonable had he dowered her to wed another, and yet 'tis of a piece with all his madness!"
"I would sooner see her dead," thought the little painter, "than Duchess of Milan, the Visconti's wife."
The white agonized face of Isotta rose before him, the fierce rebellious hate that marred Valentine Visconti's beauty, and Visconti's own expression as he stooped to mock a woman in his power; the gallant heart of the little painter throbbed with wrath and honest fury againstthe tyrant who played with hearts, who thought the offer of a crown he had usurped atoned for crimes as black as hell.
"To-night, to-night!" he murmured to himself as he mounted the stair to seek for his daughter. "To-night we shall both avenge the use of us to please a whim."
He entered his studio; it was empty, the two pictures stood with their backs to the room. Agnolo looked at them grimly. How often had Visconti sat painting that St. Catherine, unarmed! how easy then to have struck him low! What would Lombardy have said!
"Graziosa!" he called. He was eager to tell her Tomaso had been again.
He never doubted for a moment that her love had turned, as his had done, to a passion of outraged pride.
"Graziosa!"
But no answer came, and Agnolo mounted the stair and entered her little chamber in the turret. It was circular, lit by three long windows, and now ablaze with the morning sun.
The walls were hung with painted linen, faded browns, and in each window stood a rough stone jar of lilies, drooping neglected in the sun.
Seated on the floor near one of them was Graziosa, her face buried in her hands, but at her father's entrance she raised her head and looked out of the window.
"Graziosa," said Agnolo, and there was a boyish triumph in his voice, "Visconti dies to-night."
She did not move.
"To-night Della Scala enters Milan; there is no chance of failure."
"None?" she asked. Her voice was dull.
"None! Ah, Graziosa, Visconti roused more dangerous foes than he reckoned on when he played with me and thee."
The girl moved impatiently; her father's words jarred on her senses.
"Father, I am tired," she said wearily, "and my heart is very sore——"
"Never fear, my daughter; to-night, to-night!"
Graziosa turned to him; her face was white and strained.
"But if—he—the Duke—should not be—be slain?" she said. "He has a new army here in Milan."
"Aye, but a surprise at dead of night is worth two armies to the others. The palace is near; Visconti will be in their hands even while he sleeps——"
"In Della Scala's hands——" she breathed. "That means, indeed—he—O God, it means Ambrogio dies!"
The last words were breathed so low Agnolo did not hear them, but he saw the pain on his daughter's face and came gently to her side.
"Forgive me if I pain thee, my dearest. God knows, if I speak lightly 'tis but to hide a bitter grief——"
But Graziosa interrupted him with a passionate cry, and seizing his hands covered them with kisses.
"Take no heed of me!" she cried. "I am half distraught—soon I shall be better."
"After to-night there will be a shadow gone from off us, Graziosa, and not from off us alone."
"There is no chance of failure?" asked the girl again.
"Comfort thyself—none."
Graziosa said no more, and Agnolo turned to leave, for there were the soldiers still to hoodwink, but at the door his daughter called him:
"At what hour do Della Scala's men enter?" she asked, in a low voice, her head still turned away.
"One hour after midnight," returned the little painter.
"Della Scala leads them?"
"Della Scala himself," said Agnolo, proudly. "He is a noble prince."
His daughter made no answer; long after the little painter had left her again alone she sat there listless in the sunny, silent chamber, listless, with her white face, leaning back against the window frame.
"There was no possibility of failure." The words beat upon her heart till she thought it would break.
"To-morrow he will be dead!"
She sprang to her feet with sudden energy; the sun was rising high—the time was short.
It was silent, maddeningly silent; Graziosa grew afraid of it—the silence and the sun; she wished she were dead; it came to her to kill herself, yet full well she knew that she had not the courage.
She twisted her damp, cold hands together; she wondered if she shut her eyes and leaped from the window she might die without knowing it, and nerving herself looked out.
But the stone courtyard seemed far away, hard and cruel, and she winced back again.
In her own heart she knew she was a coward, and wept to think it was so—wept to think she could not rise to act, in any way to act.
There was no tinge of greatness in Graziosa's soul; she would have gone through life, if unmolested, merry, gentle, sweetness and happiness itself, content to always stand aside for others, eager to do little kindnesses that came within her compass, never tempted because never seeing the temptation, happy in utter simplicity and ignorance; but a great moment found her wanting, a crisis she could not face; as she tried to think, right and wrong grew strangely confused. She only knew she loved Visconti, and that he was in danger.
She was too weak to kill herself, although she didnot shrink from the cowardice of it, only from the pain; she was too weak to tell her father she still loved Visconti; she could not bear to see his face should she confess it; he would never understand.
"I will lock the door," she said, with wild eyes, "lock the door, and let no one enter till it is all over—and perhaps my heart will break," she added pitifully.
Then she stood a long time, still with hands locked tight. Suddenly she turned and her robe caught the jar of lilies, throwing them into the room.
There they lay, faded by the heat, amid the broken jar, and Graziosa looked with unseeing eyes, and picked them up mechanically.
Opposite hung a mirror, and as she raised her head she saw herself reflected there.
The lilies dropped from her hands as they had dropped before in the street, the day Tisio took her bracelet.
"He would have made me Duchess of Milan!"
She drew nearer and surveyed her pale face closely.
"Duchess of Milan! and he had all Italy to choose from!"
The thought brought a flush to her cheek.
"His sister is very, very beautiful. I am not so fair as she, nor as Della Scala's wife, and yet he thought me fit to share his throne——"
She moved toward the door with faltering steps.
"I must not think," she moaned. "I will lock the door—I will lock the door——"
But another thought struck her, and she quivered with her agony.
"He trusted me—he trusted us—he never questioned our faith!"
Then her heart rose in rebellion at her own weakness. Let Visconti be betrayed: why? What did she know of his crimes?
She could hear her father feasting the soldiers below, and thought of him restless and impatient for nightfall. He had never loved Ambrogio.
She listened and heard his voice in pleasant laughter with a triumphant ring in it, and a sort of rage rose in her heart.
"Who are we to save Milan from a tyrant?" she thought. "Ambrogio is more to me than all the Milanese."
She put her hand on the door handle.
"When would he have sent for me?" she wondered dully. "He smiled. His voice was gentle; Ambrogio's voice! and he is Ambrogio, and—to-night, to-night——"
Her eyes fell on the long blue hooded cloak hanging on the wall near. She took it down and paused with it in her hand, looking at it with fixed eyes.
A bird flew past the window, sending a swift shadow across the floor.
Graziosa opened the door slowly and stepped out onto the stair. It was almost dark there; silently she closed the door behind her and wrapped the cloak about her, drawing the hood over her head and face.
Leaning over the stair rail, she saw that the door of the room below was open, her father's voice was silent: the soldiers had gone elsewhere. Softly she crept down into that pleasant chamber where Visconti had sat so often; the sunlight came in from the open door in a great band across the dark floor, falling on her white face as she moved through it and out into the yard. She saw there was no soldier by the door into the street. She opened it, she could see her father and the guard chatting over wine-cups by the sundial in the garden, they were not looking; she crossed like the shadow of the bird upon the floor. Her pet doves flew away at her guilty steps as if they did not know her, andGraziosa knew herself indeed changed from the one who had last fed them.
The bolt of the door would at first not move for her trembling fingers, but she did not stay here; in a second more she stood in the street, a closed door behind her. Graziosa would never see it open more.
The houses stood clear against a brilliant sapphire sky, and above them moved a silver banner, the banner of the Viper. It floated from the Visconti palace, and Graziosa, with no glance back, bent her steps in its direction.
The day that was to place Milan in the enemy's hands was wearing to a close; the sun had almost set in a wide sky, a flare of orange and purple, against which the chestnuts stood in rich dark.
Mastino della Scala and some few of his officers were standing in the little wood into which the secret passage opened.
Behind them the army was in readiness.
"I have wrenched success from the hands of failure!" cried Mastino, his eyes brilliant, a different man. He could have laughed aloud for joy; he would see Isotta to-night, he would keep his word; Visconti's palace was near the western gate, they would be up upon him before he knew.
"There is no possibility of failure, Ligozzi; no possibility of treachery?" he said, eagerly, and pressed his friend's hands in his.
"None, lord; Vistarnini is to be trusted to the death."
"Von Schulembourg's horse returned to camp this morning," said Ligozzi. "I know not where the Count is."
"When I am in Milan I will find him; he shall wed the Lady Valentine; I bear him no bitterness. Ah, Ligozzi, the world will be a different place to-morrow."
And Mastino leaned forward eagerly, waiting for the first sign of the return of Tomaso, who had been sent ahead to reconnoiter.
The sky flared and blazed through the trees till thewhole world seemed on fire; the red clouds were reflected in Della Scala's polished armor till it glowed in one bright flame, above which the plumes on his steel cap floated long and white.
The next second the glory faded and was gone, leaving the world cold and gray.
The sun had set.
A cold breeze stirred the leaves against the pale sky, but to Mastino, leaning against the tree trunk, waiting, no foreboding came. It was success, success—at last!
"Tomaso is long," said Ligozzi.
"The way is long," smiled Mastino. "But not so long that we shall not enter Milan before dawn!"
The passage opened into the undergrowth from the wide mouth of a cave, and Della Scala, in his eagerness, stepped forward into the shadow of its blackness, listening intently.
No sound broke the stillness save the little murmur of the wind, the occasional clank of the bridles of the idle horses.
"Hark!" cried Mastino. "I hear him!"
He turned with shining eyes to Ligozzi.
"My friend, at last Heaven has heard!"
"He carries no torch," said Ligozzi, wonderingly, for though footsteps ascended, no ray of light fell across the dark.
"He stayed not for torch," cried Della Scala. "Bring up the men, Ligozzi!"
As he spoke, a figure forced itself out of the dark, a wild figure, and yet Tomaso's; his white face was smeared with blood which trickled from a great gash on his forehead, his doublet was rent and torn, and he reeled as if hurt and spent.
"O Mother of God!" muttered Mastino. "Mother of God!"
Tomaso sank at his feet with a bitter cry.
"All is over!" he cried. "We are betrayed. Oh, would I were dead before I had to tell thee!"
"Betrayed?" echoed Della Scala. All the life was struck out of him, he steadied himself against the cavern wall and looked at the boy dully. "Betrayed?"
"Betrayed? By whom?" cried Ligozzi. "Ah, thou art hurt!"
"Nothing, nothing. I am in time—Visconti—his men guard the other entrance—with difficulty I escaped to warn thee," gasped Tomaso.
"Who betrayed us?" demanded his father, his face dark with passion.
"The girl," said Tomaso, bitterly; "the girl who loved Visconti."
"And Heaven favors her love and not mine!" The cry was wrung from Mastino. "We are betrayed for a girl's love of Visconti. And my wife waits for me!" He laughed wildly, and drew a faded rose from the folds of his sash, flinging it on to the ground.
"Look, Ligozzi, a sign from Heaven—a sign I thought had been fulfilled. But a girl prayed for Visconti, doubtless, and her prayers are heard. Isotta must perish, but Visconti is saved! To mock, Heaven sends me a sign."
He ground the rose to powder beneath his heel, and Ligozzi quailed at the wild anguish of his face.
"I should have known," he cried. "I should have known. I called on God and this is His answer. I will fight Visconti alone!"
He turned from the cavern to the open, and stepped out among the waiting officers.
"Back to camp!" he cried wildly. "We are betrayed again, by a woman who loves Visconti! The Duke of Milan is fortunate; who would do the like for me?"And he flung himself down upon the bank, and sank to the ground.
"Leave us," whispered Ligozzi. "Leave us, all is over for to-night, the Prince and I will follow."
"He is much moved," returned one of the officers.
"All his hopes were on it," said Ligozzi bitterly. "His wife, his God."
In disappointed groups the men moved off, to spread the evil news.
It was now fully dark, but not so dark that the three left by the cave could not see each other in the faint starlight.
Mastino called to Tomaso. His voice was hoarse and strained.
"Tell me all, boy; tell how it happened."
"My lord," faltered Tomaso, "it is too painful."
"Painful!" And Della Scala laughed harshly. "I am well used to that; tell me how it happened."
He had risen, and standing in the shadow of the trees, only the outline of his great figure was visible to Tomaso and Ligozzi, standing a few paces before him.
"There is not much to tell," said the boy uneasily; he was sick with disappointment and the pain of his wound and leaned heavily against his father.
"Agnolo opened the door to me—as had been arranged; he told me, with a wild face, his daughter was gone. Visconti had carried her off, he vowed. He was half-crazed, and ah, my lord, even as he spoke, the courtyard filled with soldiers, Visconti's soldiers. The girl had fled to the palace, and told the Duke all! We were betrayed!
"They laughed to see me there; vowed I should die a merry death, trusted you would follow and let them give you a warm welcome. Agnolo they mocked with talk of pardon, for his daughter's sake, his daughter theDuchess to be, whom Visconti had proclaimed to all his court, if he would tell them a little more of what you meant to do! But Vistarnini met them with defiance.
"'At least Visconti shall not claim us both!' he cried, and then they laughed and killed him.Thatwas the Duke's word, they said, not pardon."
Tomaso paused.
"And his daughter lives to be Duchess of Milan!" said Della Scala. "It is the will of Heaven!" He laughed again, harshly.
"I escaped while they argued over the poor painter's body, and they dared not follow, being in terror of an ambush. If it had not been for saving thee, I would I might have died!" And he sank his head upon his father's shoulder with heart-wrung sobs.
"Take him to the camp," said Mastino, rising. "How can I comfort him or thee, wanting it so much myself?" And he turned away through the trees.
The air was perfumed and soft, it fanned the heavy hair back from his face and rustled the flowers around his feet.
He walked fast, in a fury of hate. It came to him to rush into Milan, and die upon the soldiers' spears, if he might only get his hands upon Visconti. "I will challenge him to fight, to single combat," he thought madly. Then his mood changed, he stopped and felt for the locket at his neck.
"Isotta! Oh, my dear, my dear!" and his voice was full of tears.
Graziosa Vistarnini, the savior of Milan, and the Duke's betrothed, was lodged with regal state in the magnificent new tower that stood in the grounds of the Visconti palace. Visconti could be liberal to a fault where it suited his vanity or his purpose, and Graziosa's new residence was decorated with a lavishness that made the French stare.
For not only had she saved Milan, but she had done it solely for love of him, and it gratified Visconti's pride as much as it pleased his ambition. Save for this girl he had been now even as had been Della Scala, and Milan humbled as Verona. She had been the means of his once more outwitting a foe; she had assured his safety and the safety of his city; and Visconti's proud gratitude showed in the state and splendor with which he surrounded his chosen wife.
This glorious summer morning she was seated on the side terrace that surrounded the tower, a terrace of black marble and alabaster, the delicate balustrade smothered in lemon and myrtle trees and clusters of white roses.
Graziosa was in the midst of a brilliant company; the best-born dames in Italy were among her women, and more knights and pages composed her train than had ever waited on Visconti's sister.
Beneath them the garden, reached by a shallow flight of steps, spread in perfect loveliness to the palace, above whose pink brick walls and rugged gray fortifications floated the banner of the Viper.
The air was golden with the brightness of the sun, there was not a cloud in the purple sky, and Graziosa's heart was singing in pure happiness.
She rose from her chair impulsively, and walked to the edge of the terrace, leaning over the balustrade, the ladies behind her.
"'Tis sad to think there should be fighting on such a day as this," said one, handing Graziosa her fan. "God grant it may soon be peace!"
"God grant it!" repeated the painter's daughter fervently.
"They say the Veronese cannot hold out much longer," said another. "This very morn there was news. Bassano has fallen——"
Graziosa picked a cluster of roses and buried her face in them.
"How beautiful they are!" she said. "See, they have little hearts all gold, never showing till they die; a pretty fancy, is it not?" And she stroked them tenderly.
"Bassano has fallen?" she repeated idly.
"Yes, and 'tis said they cannot fail in getting Reggio."
"Then my lord's arms are everywhere victorious!" cried Graziosa with sparkling eyes.
"As ever, lady," was the answer.
"And we can hope for peace," continued Graziosa softly.
"And when peace is proclaimed you will be Duchess—almost Queen—of Lombardy, Gian Visconti's wife!"
There was a note of envy in the speaker's voice at such a splendid destiny, but Graziosa did not notice it. She even shuddered faintly at Visconti's name; it had been associated with awe and terror too long for her to be able to easily shake the fear away.
"Meanwhile, the sun is shining hot, lady," said a third attendant. "Will you not come into the shelter?"
Graziosa moved away; the white roses at her bosom were not more pure than her face. Two pages lifted her rich train, and as she crossed the terrace a third came and spoke to her on bended knee.
"My Lord Giannotto waits your pleasure, lady."
"Tell him I am here," and the color rose in Graziosa's face at so much honor.
She turned to the steps where Giannotto waited, cap in hand, and advanced toward him.
"Lady," said the secretary, bowing low, "my lord sent me to say he will wait on you himself; and meanwhile if you have any commands——"
Graziosa interrupted him.
"Indeed, my lord is too good; what commands should I have?—tell him so, with my deepest thanks, sir."
Giannotto looked at her curiously, with a mixture of pity and wonder.
"He comes himself, lady, to hear your thanks, and learn your will."
And he stepped aside, joining the group that had been gathered about Graziosa.
Gian Visconti was coming through the garden, a grave-looking man by his side, a white hound at his heels, and two boys following, one bearing a wooden case, the other carrying a roll of drawings.
Visconti was talking to his companion; he was in the best of humors, at the height of triumph and success, his enemies well under his heel, his ambitions on the point of being gratified.
Graziosa came to the head of the steps, and Visconti took his gold cap off and waved it, coming up them gayly.
She stood silent in the glory of the sunshine and held out her hands, and he kissed them, and looked at her and laughed pleasantly.
"Now art thou happy,donna mia?" he said. "Hast thou all that thou couldst wish?"
"More than I ever dreamed of, my lord," she answered softly. "I did not know the world could be so beautiful—or so happy."
"'Tis but a small return, Graziosa, my beloved, for what thou hast done for me," returned Visconti. "And I will make it more—this is but an earnest of the future. Visconti's wife shall live in such splendor that men shall not see her for its dazzle."
"What am I, that thou shouldst give me so much joy!" cried Graziosa, with swimming eyes.
Visconti smiled.
"Thou art thyself—it is enough!"
He turned to his companion, who stood respectfully at some little distance.
"Come hither, Messer Gambera. Here is a lady who shall often pray within your church—my betrothed, who saved us Milan."
Messer Gambera bowed low, and kissed the hem of her gown.
Visconti watched his homage with pleased pride, and turned again to Graziosa.
"Now I have somewhat to show thee. This is the architect of my new church, which shall be the wonder of Italy. Follow me, messer." And he led the way into the entrance-hall.
It was low and wide, the walls covered with frescoes, the floor red sandstone, the windows opening on to the terrace.
In the middle stood a gilt stucco table, and to this Visconti drew a chair and bade Graziosa seat herself.
"Here is what I will make of Milan, sweet, when the war is ended!" he said, as the architect unrolled and arranged his drawings.
"And will that be soon?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Aye, I hope so," laughed the Duke. "Mastino della Scala grows weaker day by day—I have Bassano, and shall have Reggio. He has lost his wits as well as his fortresses, for he bids me to a single combat: all to stand or fall by our own swords. He has his answer, and I have his wife. Now, look at these, Graziosa——" and he took the drawings from the architect and spread them on the table.
"My new church," he said. "The plans, my well-beloved."
And he looked eagerly at Graziosa.
"Indeed, my lord, I do not understand them—it is no church, surely?" And she raised a sweet, bewildered face.
"'Tis the plan of one. Messer Gambera will explain it," and he motioned eagerly to the architect. "Here, messer, this is the porch?" And he laid his finger on the drawing, absorbed in contemplation.
"Yes, my lord."
"Set on three steps?"
"'Tis so, my lord."
"I do not care for that, messer, and I will have more carving—would you not, Graziosa?"
"You must not ask me; indeed I do not know," she smiled.
Visconti's face for an instant darkened. "You must learn," he said. "My duchess must know architecture. Take away the plans, messer; I will look at them alone."
"Perchance the lady might care for the model, my lord?" returned the architect. He spoke bad Italian, and was shaking with nervousness.
"Bring the model," replied Visconti, and the page placed the box upon the table.
Messer Gambera touched a spring and it flew apart, showing an exquisite little model of white marble, some twelve inches high.
"Oh! it is beautiful!" said Graziosa, and Visconti looked at her with sparkling eyes.
"You think so? Yes, it will be beautiful—the church of all Lombardy."
"It will be like this, of marble?" she asked, breathless.
"Every inch—from the porch to the pinnacles, and the floor shall be precious mosaic, and the altars crystal and serpentine, jasper and amethyst; men shall spend their lives in carving one pillar, and the price of cities shall pay for the gold that shall be lavished on it. Not in our life will this be done, nor in the lives of those that reign after us—or even they that follow, but finished it shall be, and one of the wonders of the world—and I shall be remembered as he who planned it—to the glory of God and the house of Visconti!"
He turned with shining eyes to the architect, who gazed on him with admiration, with a face that reflected the speaker's own fervor.
"Yes, mine will be the glory, though I shall never see the pinnacles kiss the sky, or hear the mass beneath that marble roof—mine will be the glory—even though I am not buried there, it will be my monument to all eternity!"
Graziosa gazed at him in silence: she could not understand. Gian glanced down at her with a smile.
"Would it not be a worthy tomb, even for a king, Graziosa?"
"For an emperor—but we will not talk of tombs, my lord," she answered, "but of pleasant things, and—and—of something that I have to ask you."
"What?" smiled Visconti.
The pages had gathered up the drawings, and the architect had removed his precious model and withdrawn.
They were alone, and Graziosa rose and looked at Visconti a little timidly.
"I—I mean—there will be peace soon—you think, my lord?"
"I think so—but peace or war, it shall not touch thee, Graziosa."
"Indeed, I do not fear it—but——"
She hesitated a moment, and glanced anxiously at Visconti's smiling face.
"Prince Mastino's wife—my lord——"
"What of her?" asked Gian, lightly. "How does she trouble thee?"
"I fear she is in sad woe," said Graziosa, encouraged by his tone. "She will return to Della Scala when the war is ended?"
Visconti laughed.
"The war will not be ended till she does, methinks; yet be comforted, Graziosa; before our wedding day she shall be in Della Scala's camp—and the war over: now think of it no more."
"Indeed I am satisfied; and my father, my lord?"
"Now, can I help it an he will not come to the palace? My word on it, he is safe; think no more of that, Graziosa. My word on it, he is safe! Now are you content?"
"My dear, dear lord, I am content: I will trouble you no more with questions. I am content to leave my father's safety in your hands—content."
She laid her arms about his neck, and Visconti kissed the roses on the breast that crushed them against his golden doublet, and then her upturned face.
Through the open window came the distant sound ofsinging; some one singing in French, and then a woman's laugh. Graziosa drew herself away, and Visconti's face darkened.
"Please heaven, she will not annoy me long," he muttered.
He took Graziosa's hand in silence and stepped out on to the terrace.
Seated on the steps was d'Orleans, playing with the red ribbons of his lute, and standing among the cluster of ladies at the foot of them was Valentine Visconti.
She looked very brilliant and beautiful, and angry and scornful; her laughter was bitter, and the veiled brightness of her eyes not pleasant.
The shade of Visconti's face deepened as he looked at her: compared to his sister, Graziosa was a candle beside the sun; the contrast did not please Gian.
D'Orleans rose and bowed low to the lady, yet in a way that was not respectful.
"So there has been a challenge from the enemy," he lisped. "Now I shall love to see a single meeting of brave swords again."
"Who said so?" asked Visconti. He came slowly down the steps; his manner had quite changed, and his eyes were on his sister.
"The Lady Valentine," said the Frenchman. "She——"
"The Lady Valentine," interrupted the Duke sternly, "had best remember—what I have often remembered to her advantage—that she is a woman, and these affairs are none of hers."
And he gave her a glance that made her wince, as always did that glance, for all her boldness.
Graziosa, her hand held lightly by the Duke, was following him down the steps, her pages behind, and Visconti kept his eyes upon his sister.
There was a meaning pause, and d'Orleans grew restless in the silence and moved away.
Valentine sent after him a look of bitter scorn, then walked slowly up to Graziosa and saluted her humbly, though her eyes were burning brightly.
Visconti watched them keenly, and noticed with displeasure how crushed and silent Graziosa showed before his brilliant sister: she shrank into herself, as if she divined the scorn Valentine concealed, and could scarce stammer a few words of greeting in reply.
"I must back to the palace, Graziosa," said Visconti, as they reached the garden, and his eyes roved over the crowd of attendants for Giannotto's figure. "Remember these are all at thy commands—and, for the present, then farewell."
To Valentine he said nothing, but turned away toward the palace with the secretary.
Graziosa looked after him, a little pained; she had noticed he was always different when his sister was there. Valentine had noticed it too, and guessed the cause, and the knowledge gave a triumph to her beauty that made it dazzling indeed.
"I fear I interrupted your discourse," she said with another curtsey.
"Indeed no, lady," replied Graziosa, timidly. "Will you not come within with me from the sun?"
"Nay, that were too much of an honor," said Valentine. "Are you not my brother's promised wife—and the savior of Milan?"
"I pray you, do not speak of it—I—I——" answered Graziosa hurriedly.
Valentine lifted her brows and opened her gray eyes wide.
"Do not speak of it? Why, 'tis a deed to be proud of—even when so well rewarded, lady."
Graziosa flushed under the mock in her tone, and turned to one of her ladies.
"We will go in—alone—since the Princess will not come," she said.
"Come and walk in the garden, madama," said Valentine. "At least it seems like liberty—there will be little enough of that when you are Duchess of Milan."
Graziosa, looking at her with frightened eyes, joined her meekly, having not the spirit to refuse.
"Now, bid your ladies back a pace—at least Gian will allow us that," and Valentine motioned them away.
"What do you mean?" faltered Graziosa, with a pang of something like envy, as she noticed the grace and dignity of Valentine's bearing, and the superb carriage of her queenly head.
Valentine shrugged her white shoulders and laughed bitterly.
"Many things—among them this—get yourself a better tirewoman and you will keep Visconti longer—learn a little spirit and you will keep him longer still."
Graziosa glanced down at her dress, the richer of the two, but worn with no such grace.
"'Tis no question of my dress, lady," she answered, with some dignity—"nor of beauty—but of love alone."
Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from the ladies following came gentle laughter.
"You think he loves you?" asked Valentine.
"I know it," answered Graziosa, proudly.
Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's betrothed like a whip-stroke.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me—you insult him!"
"Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked hissister. "Have you seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the mind—worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying, stealing and murdering?"
Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother could look, her voice was very like his.
"You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?"
"I know you never raised a hand to save them—I know I love him!" cried Graziosa.
"Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a man love—you?"
"Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa, white and trembling. "And I will hear no more."
"She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti loves her!"
Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a loving gesture.
"Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away.
Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter.
"The Lady Valentine is not a gay companion to-day," remarked one of her attendants, looking at her.
"No," said Graziosa dully. Valentine's words were rankling in her heart; all the past came before her, all the tales she had heard of Visconti, all her father's tenderness, the old, happy time. What if it had all been amistake? What if Visconti still played with her and he was what Valentine had said? The idea was too awful, she crushed it back, she would not believe.
She thought of her father with a sudden yearning; she had always turned to him in her little troubles, she felt uneasy about him with a sudden wave of homesickness. "Can I forget?" she cried in her heart. "Can I live this life and forget?"
But the next moment she calmed herself. She thought of Visconti leaning over his cathedral, of his hand in hers, of his earnest voice—and she had his word for her father's safety.
Smiling to herself, she mounted the steps to her gorgeous dwelling, made splendid by Visconti's love.
"My father! We shall be happy together again yet!" And she laughed and kissed the roses Gian had kissed, and the sun seemed bright again.
But Agnolo Vistarnini lay in the little chapel of Santa Maria Nuova, near to the western gate, with tapers burning at his head and feet, and five sword-thrusts through his heart.
Valentine Visconti was praying in the Church of San' Apollinare. It stood some way from the Visconti palace, a magnificent building, rich with the Duke's gifts.
That morning thanksgiving rose from every church in Milan; from the palace to the hut, all showed some sign of rejoicing. The Duke had ordered public processions and thanksgiving, and none dared disobey.
His Holiness Pope Boniface had deserted the falling cause of Verona; there was nothing to be feared and little to be gained from Mastino della Scala, the Duke of Milan had offered his aid against the rebellious Florentines, and many bribes besides, and to-day had seen the new league between the powerful tyrant of Lombardy and His Holiness publicly ratified.
From Rome Visconti had nothing more to fear, Mastino nothing more to hope.
The country around Padua was Visconti's too; Cologna, which he had always held, the great seaport of Chioggia, Mestre and Lovigo, betrayed by Carrara.
Bassano had fallen, and now Reggio; there was cause for thanksgiving in Milan.
As a last triumph, Valentine had been sent to offer up prayers and gifts for her brother's success. She was guarded on her errand, practically a prisoner. Soldiers stood at every door of the church, and a mounted escort waited without to conduct her back. She was on her knees before the blazing altar, her head low over hermissal, but she was not offering thanks to heaven for Gian's victories.
She thought of Graziosa with angry hate. But for that girl, Della Scala had been in Milan, and Count Conrad with him—and in reward for her treachery Graziosa was to queen it over her! Visconti delighted to flaunt her with her at every turn.
That morning Visconti had told her the war was drawing to a close—said it with much meaning, and promised her, smiling, Count Conrad's head as a wedding gift. He had been closeted long with Giannotto; strangely elated he had seemed, and Valentine shudderingly wondered what was in the air.
That there was something she knew full well; Visconti was hatching some stroke that would complete Della Scala's ruin. For some days she had seen his purpose in his face, and to-day the alliance with the Pope confirmed it.
She did not greatly care, she was too crushed with her own failures to care much for the failure of another. She felt sorry for Isotta d'Este, and bitter toward Count Conrad.
"But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad," she thought in hot anger, "I would notliveto grace Visconti's triumph."
The sound of bells penetrated even into the hushed interior of the church. As the service ended and Valentine rose to her feet, she heard them burst into wild music; the dim, incensed air seemed troubled by their triumphant throb, the gold tapestry to shake with it.
"Is it another victory?" murmured Valentine. The church had emptied, she was alone in it save for two ladies kneeling motionless.
The monks swept out, with a swinging of incense anda low chanting. One only remained, putting out candles about the altar.
Valentine closed her missal and turned to leave. The sun was streaming through the gold and opal window in a dazzling shaft of light, it fell over her face and blinded her for a second. The next, she looked round to see the solitary monk behind her. His head was hidden in his cowl, his arms folded, he passed her without looking up.
"Count Conrad is in Milan," he said, under his breath, and silently and swiftly he was gone.
Valentine, hardly believing she had heard aright, gazed after him wildly, then collecting herself, walked down the aisle, her brain on fire.
Her ladies rose, in waiting, and under no excuse could she prolong her stay.
"Count Conrad is in Milan!"
Did that mean that he would rescue her yet—was it Conrad himself who spoke?
The thought was grateful to her sore, angry heart. She had not much confidence in Count Conrad's skill nor his chances of success—still, he was in Milan, he cared enough to have risked that, and she could wait.
After the dim church the sun was blinding, the crash of the bells deafening. Valentine mounted her horse with a throbbing heart; that whisper in the church had given her new life.
The soldiers formed up either side, behind and before; it would not have been possible for her to drop even her glove unnoticed. She was riding the streets of Milan as her brother's trophy, as his prisoner; every one of those who bowed so humbly to her as she passed, every peasant her guards thrust back from her path, was freer than she.
San' Apollinare was far from the palace, and for thatreason Visconti had chosen it. All Milan should see her ride to offer thanksgiving for his victories.
"Surely there is more good news," said Costanza, as they crossed the bridge that spanned the canal; "the air is full of rejoicing, and I have seen many messengers spur past."
Valentine set her teeth, and looked between the spears of her escort at the bright blue water beneath them. All the craft that covered its surface were gay with flags, its depth reflected buildings hung with the banners of the Viper.
"It fills the very air we breathe," shuddered Valentine, "the shadow of the Viper."
Costanza glanced at her.
"I must confess," she replied, "I should be proud an it were my bearing. To be a Visconti on such a day as this would please me well; and though I am your friend, madama, I must say it."
"As do all the others," said Valentine, bitterly. "You are blinded by splendor and power—you see no deeper than the skin!"
"Maybe," said the other lightly. "Yet am I glad the Duke hath triumphed, and not Mastino della Scala, who is as sullen as a peasant, and a foe to all display."
"And his wife?" asked Valentine in a low tone. "Have you no thought for her?"
Costanza shrugged her shoulders.
"Methinks I have done much to show I have! But she is a prisoner of war, and must take her chances like another. Were it the Visconti's wife in such a case—she would not be a prisoner long! Let Mastino della Scala tear her from his foe himself—let him do as Visconti did when the Lady Graziosa was in danger."
"Hold thy tongue," returned Valentine angrily. "You talk as a child—you know not what you say."
"I only know this," retorted the other, "I wouldIwere the Lady Graziosa," and she looked defiantly at Visconti's angry sister.
"For shame, Costanza," said Valentine. "Remember yourself."
They rode in silence till, at the turn of the street, another splendid cavalcade crossed theirs. It was the Lady Graziosa and her suite. Tisio Visconti and d'Orleans were in attendance; she rode a white palfrey.
The sun lay tenderly in her soft hair; her green dress was covered with pearls, and round her throat she wore the emeralds Visconti had promised his sister, the first jewels in Italy, robbed from Della Scala.
Valentine noticed them, she noticed Graziosa's happy face, the joy she took in the homage paid her, in Visconti's success that so galled her, Visconti's sister, and a sudden purpose rose in her eyes.
She smiled sweetly on Graziosa, and rode up to d'Orleans; the Frenchman remarked with pleasure how she outshone the Duke's betrothed. The deep blue of her velvet robe made her skin appear of dazzling fairness, her hair was like burnished gold, her mouth like a red flower, but her eyes, for all her smile, as dangerous as Gian Maria's could be, as mad, almost as wicked.
"We are well met, my lord," she said, smiling. "Have there been even greater victories?"
"I know not, lady; they say something of Lucca having fallen," returned d'Orleans. "I have been escorting the Lady Graziosa to view the new church—by the Duke's orders"; he added in a lower tone, "could I have chosen my companion, it had not been she."
Valentine listened with downcast eyes, playing with the rubies at her wrist. Her escort was grouped about her, and Costanza glanced aside at her curling lips with some mistrust.
"The Lady Graziosa is happier and fair to-day," she whispered to her companion, and Valentine overheard and smiled the more.
"And my brother, the Duke?" she asked.
"I have not seen the Duke all day," replied the Frenchman. "There is talk of an embassy to the enemy—confusion and crowds——"
"You have been riding Milan to see the rejoicings?" interrupted Valentine, and she raised her eyes to Graziosa once—the glance was not pleasant—then she fell to playing with her bracelet again.